


Trying To Be Better

by Incog_Ninja



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 20:18:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19731040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Incog_Ninja/pseuds/Incog_Ninja
Summary: PROMPT: Sending you a flash fic prompt! Avengers, Natasha Romanoff, please. You can put her w/anyone, romantically or not: Bruce, Tony, Pepper, or Wanda are my preference, but I'm easy. I just want them loving each other, but if you'd like to porn it up, my kink is spanking. Xoxo CONGRATULATIONS EVERYONE LOVES YOU*This idea was based off the scenes they cut from Endgame showing Nat working with kids who were orphaned by Thanos. And this adorable graphic by @takkyb1





	Trying To Be Better

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecarlysutra](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/gifts).



“ _I used to have nothing, and then I got this – this job, this family – and I was better because of it. And even though they’re gone… I’m still trying to be better_.”

~ Natasha Romanoff, _Avengers: Endgame_

~~~~~~~

It feels like I’ve been here before or that I never left. Yet, there’s sunshine and laughter and the only fears are in their dreams. We do our best – _I_ do my best – to quell those fears and worries, to help them build a base of strength upon what they already have.

Inside each and every child here is a story of hope and growth, renewal, strength. We just have to know how to find it.

“What would you say is your favorite thing about school?”

“I don’t like school, Ms. Rushman,” Billie answers.

“Oh, come on,” I encourage her to share because I know that even in the darkest corners of the universe, there will always be something to cherish. “You have to like something even a little.”

Billie seems to be thinking hard about it. She seems irritated that I’ve asked, which sort of entertains me. Then her face brightens in that way that tells me I’m doing something good and right, and that I’m on the right path.

“I like beating Zak Booker in spelling,” Billie finally answers, and then the flood gates open. “He thinks he’s _soooo_ smart,” she says with an eye roll, and I grin. “But I always beat him at spelling. And my handwriting’s better, even though the teachers don’t really care about that – I do. And I’m faster than he is in the 50-yard dash.”

I’m impressed, so I say so, and Bille blushes and shrugs.

Billie’s 8-years-old. Her entire family was blown to dust by the snap of an unearthly creature wearing a glove made of gold and gemstones. She lives in a home with other kids who have that factoid of background, each of the kids unique and purposeful.

“So, spelling, writing, and running,” I recap, and Billie nods, bringing a pink shadow-filled brush to my face. I close my eyes, and her small hands work. “Those are all good things to focus on.”

“I like this color, too,” she says, swiping gently, coloring my eyelids. Billie’s done talking about school, apparently, and would much rather paint my face.

“Is it done?” I ask.

“No,” she says like I’m new to make-up. “You need mascara.”

I laugh and let her keep on with the makeup game.

~~~~~~~

“How’s Billie?” Bruce asks as I enter the compound and drop my bag into a chair.

“She’s good,” I answer. I feel a strong sense of accomplishment for the day. “She likes spelling, writing, running, and probably anything else she can lord over Zak Booker.”

Bruce turns to look at me and a small, slow smile widens his handsome, green-hued features.

“And make-up, apparently,” he says, gesturing toward my elaborately pinked eyes.

I laugh. “Yes, and make-up.” I walk right into his arms and he wraps me up.

Logistics change and grow and shift, but the love we have for each other – me and Bruce, Tony, Pepper, Steve, Clint (wherever he is), and those we’ve lost – will always be here. It’s not something that can be snapped away.

“What’d you make for dinner?” I ask, pulling away, scenting tomatoes and garlic, basil. “Spaghetti?” I ask with a wry grin. Bruce makes spaghetti about four night a week. And tacos.

He looks indignant for a moment. “Angel Hair,” he answers, and I stifle a snort.

“My favorite,” I say, and he shakes his head as we make our way to the kitchen to eat.


End file.
